Empty
by Quaxo
Summary: Sequel to "Fury".  Goren contemplates the misery of financial paperwork, and the definition of 'love'.


Part two of a series started with my story "Fury". Don't necessarily need to read to understand this story, but it wouldn't hurt. This was started before Icarus, so it hasn't taken that episode into account.

Obviously, don't own the characters or the setting - Only borrowing it!

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><p>He walks from Dr. Gyson's office to the nearest subway station, making his way back to 1PP. His mind is buzzing, and the hum of the city seems to be on the same frequency, amplifying every nerve in his body. It feels like he's being scoured with steel wool, the faintest breeze feeling like a raw wound, the honk of a horn like a brutal slap.<p>

It's a relief when the subway car he boards is mostly deserted, a bored teenage couple curled together at one end, a nervous looking middle-aged woman clutching the hand of her toddler tightly. He takes a seat at the back end of the car, far away from everyone else – after all, the mother – a newcomer to the city, obviously, would just assume he was some sort of pedophile or rapist – and he didn't think he could stomach a full buffet of puppy love right now –

It's better if he's alone.

Undoubtedly, Dr. Gyson has contacted Hannah by now, informed Hannah of his most spectacular exit – truly 'whack job theatre' at its finest – and Hannah will undoubtedly call Eames into his office, tell her that her partner has lost it _again_ and that they're going to have to do something about it.

He'd meant what he'd said to Dr. Gyson, that she could take his badge, because he wasn't coming back to her – maybe he can convince them to transfer him to a different shrink, that he and Dr. Gyson just weren't working – she could hardly deny it after today, he thinks – and then he could just feed this new shrink the right answers like a good boy and finally get the all clear, like he should have done from the beginning.

Eames was going to be pissed – had made it clear that she wasn't going to tolerate any more self-destructive outbursts on his part – he wondered if this counted – probably did. He had _tried_ to make this work, only Dr. Gyson had to go and get distracted by _trivialities_ like whether or not he was _in love_ with her (Eames, not Gyson) and kept pestering him, kept missing the whole point of why he was there in the first place –

Maybe he'll tell Eames about Gyson's theory – she'd snicker, maybe, say it was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard of – that she'd have to kill him by the end of the week, that eight hours a day of him was quite enough –

Maybe he won't tell her – not because he's afraid of her reaction, but because it's inappropriate – Eames might start looking at him, trying to find out if Dr. Gyson was right, and she didn't need to worry if he was harboring inappropriate feelings for her – which he wasn't. He's caused quite enough damage to her career – her life – without having to give another thing to be on the lookout for. She shouldn't have to keep cleaning up his messes…

It wouldn't surprise anyone to hear that he and his shrink weren't clicking – it happened to normal people surely, and she and Hannah both knew his extensive experience with psychiatry, surely they'd understand how it made it even more difficult to connect. He and Dr. Gyson were too different to make the therapy effective – he had wanted this to work – and he wasn't going to be able to with Gyson… surely, they'd understand – believe – that.

He enters 1PP, taking the stairs up to the 11th floor, not because he wants to delay the confrontation, not because he needs to work out his pitch to Hannah and Eames, but because the doctor told him he needed to take better care of himself, and it certainly wouldn't hurt him to take the stairs every once and awhile.

He's pleased to note he's only mildly out of breath by the time he hits the 11th floor landing, stopping a moment to slow his breathing, to collect himself before he goes to Hannah. He needs to get in front of the incident – confessing straight away, well, that will only make everyone see that he really is _trying_ here. Not hiding or denying anything.

He enters the bull pen, noticing immediately that Harrah's office is empty, and that the large man is nowhere to be seen – he couldn't have gone to the brass already, could he? It's been less than an hour since his abrupt termination of the session with Dr. Gyson, news travels fast, but not that fast surely...

Eames is still at her desk, glancing up briefly from the mountain of paperwork on her desk to slip him a half-smile. The knots in his chest loosen slightly – she doesn't know – before cinching up again because he's going to have to tell her what happened and she's going to be so disappointed.

He takes a seat, pulls the first set of paperwork – requisitions and expense sheets – he barely suppresses a groan… if the NYPD ever _really_ wanted to punish him they'd put him in the accounting department.

"So how'd your session go today," Eames asks casually, not looking up from her case report – lucky. Sometimes he thinks she dumps all the financial paperwork on his side just so she doesn't have to do it. Which is okay, because sometimes he does the same. He's pretty sure it all evens out by the end.

His thoughts stumble as he tries to decide what he should say – his first instinct is 'fine' but it's not true, and when Eames finds out she'll be pissed – except she's going to be pissed anyway when she what really happened.

"…not well…," He mumbles, his hand going up to rub the twinge in the back of his neck. "I – I don't think it's working out – we just don't connect."

"Bobby –" Eames eyes flash at him, and he forces himself to hold eye contact with her, watching the fine lines crinkle around her eyes as she glares at him. "You _promised_ me –"

"I _**know**_," The words come out louder than he expected and he ducks his head, tamping down his frustration – she won't _see_ – "I – I am trying, she's just – we just – it doesn't work. I'm going to see if there isn't someone – someone else."

He meets her eyes dead on, willing her to believe him, to see how he's telling the truth –

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why isn't working between you and the shrink," Eames asks, her expression that same intent one she gives suspects in the interrogation room when she's waiting for them to trip themselves up, and his gut squirms with being at the receiving end of it once more.

The truth has already been ruled out as a possible answer – but there aren't a lot of other options that Eames will find remotely believable. He used to be better at this – coming up with excuses – covering for his parents when he was a child, covering for why he needed to make trips out of the city every weekend to visit his mother when he was older – reasons why he never thought about getting married or having children –

More to the point, people never used to _ask_ him these sort of questions – always let him handle his own affairs in private without having to understand and pick apart why he was doing what he was doing, when it wasn't any of their business anyway – criticizing his decisions as if he hadn't been taking care of himself for forty-plus years.

_That's what happens when you let other people see your damage; they see you're weak and they start asking questions…_

"My father – she – she just wants to talk about my father," He forces out, staring at the form in front of him – he feels like such a child, but he can't lie straight to her face. A small part of him wonders if he's hoping she'll catch on and force him to tell her the truth – but that'd be madness. "I just don't see how it relates to work, is all."

"You can't understand how your issues with male authority might have something to do with the fact that your dad was an irresponsible jackass who ran out on you and your mom," Eames asks dryly, skepticism thick.

He's dancing on the edge now – one wrong word and she'll have him caught – and legitimately so – god, if he were interviewing himself he'd have jumped all over that. He's getting slow – and Eames is getting too quick and too sharp and too close –

"…other father…" the words worm their way out of the tightness of his throat as he focuses desperately on the sheet in front of him, trying to get the symbols reform into something that resembles the written language as his heartbeat thunders in his ears.

"…oh," Eames' voice is gentle, and something about it makes him look at her again. Her brown eyes are tender, looking at him with rare open sympathy. He resists the urge to cringe before it as guilt rises up like a wave in his stomach, leaving a bitter tang in the back of his throat.

_There you go, pimping out your family to get what you want – what a class act, using __**him**__ to manipulate your partner too…_

He stays focused on the form – he might as well be filling in Mad-Libs because he's pretty sure the whole thing is going to get kicked back to him as rejected and none of his expenses will be refunded – but it's worth it just to end this painful conversation, every penny.

Out of his peripheral vision he can see Eames return to her own work – but he can tell by the way her pen bounces in her fingers that she's probably getting just as much done as he is at the moment – which is to say nothing at all – but as long as she stays focused on the papers then they both come out of this fine –

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about that with – someone," Eames asks, shattering his concentration – for all that it was worth anyway –

"No – no, I made my peace with that," As much as one could make peace with the fact that your biological father was serial killer and rapist who had as good as pushed your mother into her descent into madness – and finding out that your mother wasn't the complete innocent you'd always thought her to be. He was an adult, he knew how complicated life could be – knew it was irrational to pretend that his mother was anything but human, a very ill one at that – but he'd wanted her to be innocent of the breakdown of her marriage to Frank – had childishly still wanted it all to be Frank, the bastard's, fault.

"Really," Eames looks skeptical again – like she's reading his thoughts – she's learned a lot from him after all these years – pretty soon she won't even need him – if she ever did.

"Antisocial personalities – like – like his– are the products of their environments just as much as their genetics – I don't even remember him as a child – his… _contribution_ might as well have – have come out of a turkey baster for all the effect he had on me as a – a person."

Declan would have ripped him to shreds for that – he _had_ ripped him to shreds over it once, when he'd first started thinking of getting the DNA test – he had pointed out quite accurately that his own childhood had all the hallmarks of a serial killer breeding ground – an absent father figure, a domineering mother, severe mental illness in the family – adding in genetics from a known psychopath should have really just been the cherry on the sundae that resulted in Bobby Goren: Homicidal Maniac.

He watches as Eames' lips curl upwards at the corners at the comment – a sweet look that he has only seen a few times on her face, as her eyes sparkle merrily with that gallows humor that has always been her signature in his mind. It's one of her approving looks, probably because she's relieved that he's decided not to have a mental breakdown over it –

"I'm glad you know that son-of-a-bitch's place in your life. You're existence is probably the only _good_ thing that man ever did."

She gets him – in a way that is different from Declan, who was more interested in examining every _why_ instead of _what next_ – Eames accepts the situation and looks forward to the next step. Never looking back and wondering 'what if' – not chained to her past. It was a trait he'd always admired about her – he was fortunate to have someone like her in his life – she was like a compass, always there to point him towards home and he'd be lost without her –

She smiles at him and suddenly, it's as if the air was sucked out the room – only Eames doesn't seem to notice as she returns to her forms, pen scratching along the paper and filling in the blanks. It is illogical, he knows, to think that because if the air really was gone they'd – they'd all be goners.

His ears ring with a high pitched whine, his throat is tight and swollen letting only the smallest of trickles of air into his lungs. He tries to take deeper breaths – yanks on his tie – anything to bring the air back to him but nothing seems to help. His heart is hammering in his chest and he can feel his hands start to tremble like the last leaf in fall in the face of the first winter storm –

Knowing what's going on – knowing what's wrong with him doesn't help, when all he can think about how this is the absolutely worst place for this to happen – he _has_ to get out of the room before people start staring – before _she_ notices and asks what's wrong—

He accidentally kicks his chair back as he stands, sending it crashing into the gun locker with a loud bang, and he can feel all the eyes on him as he makes his way as calmly and quickly as he can towards the gentleman's room, praying that luck will be on his side and the place will be empty – he doesn't need witnesses to this –

For once in his miserable life something goes right and the men's bathroom is mercifully empty. He yanks at his collar desperately, feels two of the buttons pop free and hears them clatter to the floor as he makes his way to the last stall. He can see his reflection out of the corner of his eye – sees how ashy his skin has gotten, as well as the bright red splotches on his cheeks.

He locks in himself in the stall, leaning heavily against the door, as he finally lets himself gasp for air as he pulls his tie from his neck. He can barely fit in the damn thing – his shoulders are centimeters from brushing the walls – but anything, _anything_ is better than doing this in front of people who are just waiting for him to fuck up one more time – to finally prove that he really is crazy like all the rumors said he was –

A panic attack – a _goddamn_ panic attack, and over what? Nothing – Eames had smiled at him, nothing more – yet the fear that had seized him – was seizing him –

He feels his lips go numb and knows that if he doesn't get himself together he's going to pass out in this cramped little stall and they'll have to rip out half the cubicles just to get him out – and then everyone will know what mess he really is…

His chest tightens further and he forces himself to push the thought away – he was fine – no one was going to find him in here – no one would know, and if anyone asked what took him so long in the bathroom, he'd just blame it on a dirty water dog.

As he regains control of his body he forces himself to focus on anything but why this is happening to him _now_ – the time for panic attacks was when he really had no control over his life – when he'd been a child, a teenager – taking care of his mother as she dying while trying to manage an equally demanding career – not now, not when things were _finally_ starting to get back to normal…

When he finally manages to pull himself out of the cubicle he goes to the sink to wipe the cold sweat from his brow. He avoids looking at the mirror – avoids the broken old man in his reflection as he dries off his face.

No one asks what happened when he finally returns to his desk – probably already are assuming the worst. Eames barely glances up at him as he sits down– he's pretty sure the stack of financials has increased on his side. Suppressing a sigh he gets to work – anything to stop thinking about what just happened.

Financials are dry and mind-numbingly boring when it's not related to a case they're investigating that he can hardly stand it – can't help but think how much effective the NYPD would be as a crime fighting force if they dropped half the paperwork.

Today, though, he is thankful for it as he allows the tedium to consume every brain cell available, not even bothering to glance at the clock as he blindly plows through the stack of papers on his desk – then starts stealing them from Eames when he runs out. He probably owes her anyways.

When Eames' stack begins to look like its running low, he begins to glance about to see if there was anything else he could be doing – Jeffries had a decent pile it looked like, maybe he could poach, but no – well, surely his supply drawer needed reorganizing, and it probably be good to clear out his binder again –

"Goren," Eames' voice pulls him from his thoughts. She's standing beside him, her jacket on. "Time to go punch the clock. Otherwise Hannah's going to chew you out for the OT."

A glance at the clock on the computer screen shows it's a little after five – any other day he'd be glad to see it, but this time all he feels is despair – end of the day means he has to go back home, alone.

"Don't look so glum. Y'know, those forms reproduce like rabbits overnight – there will be more…"

"Yeah…. I know," He tries to smile as he stands, grabbing his own coat from the rack. "Night, Eames."

"See you tomorrow," She calls out over her shoulder as she heads to elevator bank.

He watches her until she's swallowed by the elevator doors – then closes up his desks, shuts down his computer and takes the eleven flights down the stairs and makes for the subway station. He'd given up trying to drive into the city any more – he didn't have patience for the aggravation, and besides the gas and parking fees were almost criminal.

It takes him an hour and three trains to make it back to his apartment building and even so he hesitates before he enters – its not as if he had anywhere else he could go…

He takes the stairs, meandering his way up the five loops it takes to get to his floor, dawdling on purpose this time. He can't put it off forever, however, and eventually he is left standing in front of his own apartment door.

Out of habit he checks the frame for signs of damage, the key lock for fresh scratches – untampered with today it seems. When Nicole had been free he'd worried sometimes about her stopping by for a little game of tit for tat – now, sometimes he hoped it'd be Donny looking to make contact, and sometimes he'd imagine some disappointed burglar trying to find something of worth left in his apartment to hock that he hadn't already taken down to the pawn brokers.

He turns the key in the lock, letting the door swing open into the cavernous darkness. No one waiting for him – not even a pet (it hadn't seemed fair, what with his erratic hours, bringing something into his life and not being able to give it any attention) –

If it weren't for his job, if he went missing no one would notice. If it weren't for his job he could disappear this very minute and no one would miss his presence at all – what was left of his biological family was scattered and they rarely kept in touch. He had friends, but his own visits to them had been so sporadic that if he just stopped contacting them they'd probably never even notice.

The super would miss him – would miss his monthly rent payment anyway.

His job though? Would they really miss him – he was pretty sure Chief Moran would thank whatever gods had been listening to his prayers to take the whack-job out of his hair (what little had left anyway). Hannah might notice, eventually, but he had a squad to run and he couldn't exactly go running after one mentally unbalanced detective.

Eames would notice. Eames would probably make her way down here to kick his ass for being late and making her look bad. She'd done that to him once, the first month of their partnership after he'd had a bad night with his mother. He'd called Deakins, let him know that he wouldn't be in, and they were between cases – only he'd forgotten to call Eames, hadn't really even thought of contacting her, had figured Deakins would catch her at the early morning meeting and let her know.

She'd come down to his apartment, pounded on his door loud enough to wake the dead, and then had proceeded to read him the riot act about showing up to work on time – his explanation that he'd told Deakins had only increased her fury.

"_I'm your partner, you tell me first."_

He'd forgotten that somewhere along the way… and look at the load of trouble it had brought him.

He curses Dr. Gyson under his breath as he crosses the threshold, slamming the door and bolting it behind him. He'd told her – told her about the transmissions and the crap that held everyone – held him – together for another day, but she hadn't been able to resist digging in all the wrong places.

Did he feel a 'romantic interest' with Eames? He supposed that depended on how one defined 'romance', and really how one described 'love', because what was romance but an expression love?

Was love candy, flowers, dinners and lavish gifts? The man who'd raised him had showered his mother with such things when he was having a good streak at the track, proofs of his affection, he'd call them – only for bouquet to wilt, the candy all gone, and the earrings to end up in hock a week or so later when his luck ran out.

Was love sexual chemistry? His mother had been attractive, she could have sought the attentions of other men, but she'd returned to Brady every time. As horrifying as it was to imagine the two of them together in such a fashion (even more so than the usual revulsion to the idea of one's parents having carnal relations since he knew the intimate details of Brady's proclivities), there had to have been a powerful sexual attraction for the two of them to continue their affair for all those years – until Brady's desires had overwhelmed him and destroyed his mother.

It was not as if his family's stories were unique either – how many times had he'd seen their similar scenarios play out in the cases he solved – at least a dozen, maybe more, and that was only the ones that he'd handled, multiply the average by the number of crimes committed in a day, a month, a year and surely the numbers would be astronomical.

If love was about material proofs then it could just as easily be torn away. He'd certainly performed his fair share of courtship dances when he'd still been dating, and none of those relationships had ever gotten very far. Besides, he was pretty sure that Eames would just roll her eyes if someone brought her flowers or chocolates…

If love was about sexual passion – he'd seen how easily those could destroy both people. He hadn't lied when he'd told Dr. Gyson that he didn't think Eames that way – Eames was an attractive woman physically, but he'd never allowed himself to think that way about her out of respect. If she were just some random person plucked from the street then he might profess a certain attraction – he'd always preferred women who knew what they wanted and damn whatever anyone else thought about it.

So by these standard conventions it was clear that he did not harbor any secret romantic affections for Eames – the closest he'd ever even gotten to anything on the list were the coffees and bags of Skittles he'd bought her on occasion, and those were mostly to get him out of the dog house (and occasionally because she'd looked down).

Except, then what to call the fact that she was one of the few – no, the only person he trusted anymore? What to do with the knowledge that if she up and quit her job tomorrow, he'd be right behind her because there wouldn't be a damn point to trying to do it with anyone else. How did one define the certainty that if she were to be taken from this life that he'd be completely devastated beyond hope of repair… that his life without Alex in it wasn't a life he felt much like living, when it came down to it.

If that was love – well, then he was screwed.


End file.
